Permitted, Permitting
by neuxue
Summary: "Permets-tu?" A cautious embrace. As always, Enjolras pulls away first - his capacity for physical affection only extends so far - but he knows that, as always, Grantaire understands.


"_Permets-tu_?" Grantaire asks, brushing a finger lightly against the palm of Enjolras's hand. Enjolras responds with a faint smile, grasping Grantaire's hand in his own, and sees the cynic's face light up. Moments later he lets go, but so it has always been, and he knows Grantaire understands.

Because Enjolras, like any good leader, knows what his followers want and need, knows their desires and their fears, their reasons for fighting. And he will give all he can give so that they may know happiness and peace, so that their cause may be one worth fighting for, so that their banner may advance. There are some things he cannot give, like the sort of love he knows Grantaire longs for – but he tries to the small extent that he can, and hopes that Grantaire will understand.

"_Permets-tu_?" Grantaire asks again later, a smirk on his face this time as he reaches to push a curl of Enjolras's hair from his forehead. Enjolras raises an eyebrow but lowers his head to the other man's hand, feels Grantaire's fingers slip softly through his hair. It only lasts a moment before he has to turn away, but he knows Grantaire understands.

Grantaire may be a drunken cynic, but he is even more a follower than the rest, existing for a place in Enjolras's shadow, with the dream of being by his side. Enjolras is his god, his angel, and Grantaire will forever be a devotee, never presuming despite what his wry comments and mocking tones might suggest, always asking permission to love.

"_Permets-tu_?" This time a cautious embrace. Enjolras is motionless for a moment before he tentatively lifts his arms, wrapping them gently around Grantaire, allowing the other man to pull him close, to rest his dark head against Enjolras's shoulder. As always, Enjolras pulls away first – his capacity for physical affection only extends so far – but he knows that, as always, Grantaire understands.

It has become something of a signal between them, though sometimes it is little more than a jest, a jibe. Sometimes Grantaire speaks the words softly, a precursor to the caresses he longs to give but will never be truly allowed. Sometimes he teases, testing the boundaries, though always pulling back before he crosses the line he is beginning to learn to navigate. Sometimes he spits them with as much venom as he can muster, out of a sick desire to see even a flash of his own pain in his angel's eyes – though on the rare occasion that it appears, he feels as though he has committed the grossest blasphemy. He may not believe in anything else, but it only strengthens his faith in Enjolras.

"_Permets-tu_?" he asks, slipping his hands once more into that golden hair, his face only inches from Enjolras's. "_Permets-tu_?" he whispers again, their breath mingling. But this time Enjolras pulls away, shaking his head once and not meeting Grantaire's eyes.

It is the only thing Enjolras has ever denied him, though only because Grantaire has never dared to ask for more. He will never map his Apollo's body with his own calloused hands, will never sleep in his god's embrace. But he sees the fire in Enjolras's eyes as he speaks, hears the passionate ringing of his voice, with the strange undercurrent of a hymn, and considers himself honoured to be able to touch him at all. After all, he is but a cynic and an unbeliever; he has no place by the side of a god.

"_Permets-tu_?" This time Grantaire asks in words laced with sarcasm, his hand on the door of the Musain. The others have left to do Enjolras's bidding throughout the city, and once again Grantaire has been denied assignment. He asks dismissal. Enjolras nods and turns aside.

Because Enjolras knows his friends' reasons for their commitment to the cause, and he knows why the cynic follows them – follows him. They all know they will not likely survive what they hope to begin, but the rest will all gladly martyr themselves for freedom, or for peace, or for love. They believe, but Grantaire does not; Enjolras can see the disdain in his eyes, the laughter in his mocking gaze. He sees belief not when they talk about liberty, or equality, or fraternity, but when Grantaire's eyes meet his, when Enjolras allows him a touch, a grasp of his hand, a gentle caress. He knows Grantaire would fight and die not for the cause but for him, and though he knows there will be blood on his hands before the end, that is one thing he does not see how he can permit.

"_Permets-tu_?" Grantaire is persistent, though, and Enjolras acquiesces finally, sending him to the Barriere du Maine. And though he smiles a wry smile at Grantaire's red coat, it is with a strange heaviness that he watches him go.

On the day of Lamarque's funeral, Enjolras sends a message to Bossuet. There is no need to include Joly's name – where L'aigle flies, Joly will follow. He knows Grantaire will be there as well, and this time the excluded name is intentional, as is the messenger. If Enjolras goes to him, Grantaire will follow, and he will not lead him to die for a cause that was never his. He is glad he will not have to see the hurt in Grantaire's eyes – for Grantaire will think it is because Enjolras disdains him – but he hopes it will spare him the sight of Grantaire dying for him, because of him. He hopes that, though he goes to kill and to die, he can spare at least one life.

"You will see," Grantaire says this time, a strange graveness in his eyes that almost frightens Enjolras. He is accustomed to mockery, to anger, to worship, to questioning, but determination is an odd look on the cynic's face. And this time he does not ask for anything.

Death surrounds him, as he knew it would. Blood has stained his hands – though when he looks, they are clean – and his own judgment has condemned him. When the National Guard face him, guns pointed, he throws his away and offers himself. Justice does not discriminate, justice does not show mercy. He has judged and been judged, and this is his fate. His time is ended – he has given all he could to a future in which he knows he has no place. They can kill him, but the future no longer belongs to him, and that they cannot kill. "Shoot me," he says.

Then a familiar voice calls out with entirely unfamiliar certainty. _Vive la république! J'en suis._ For a moment Enjolras feels a flicker of despair, until Grantaire meets his eyes and suddenly he understands. He knows even before Grantaire walks over to him that it always would have ended so. That Grantaire has always been his inverse, his obverse, his acolyte. Enjolras will die with hope and pride and the knowledge of the future. Grantaire will die with love. And neither will die alone.

"_Permets-tu_?" asks Grantaire, with unadulterated sweetness, brushing his fingers lightly against the palm of Enjolras's hand in a gesture so familiar to Enjolras – the question, the hesitant touch, the undercurrent of hope and longing. And this time Enjolras denies him nothing, grasping his hand fiercely with a smile that, if he had a chance to complete it, would have been radiant.


End file.
